The Finale
by S. Henry
Summary: Short story.


It was uneventful, to be honest. I expected more from it but perhaps I built it up in my own head. I wanted to hear the angels of heaven singing praise to the Almighty about His glory and majesty. I thought that there might be bells and whistles, or at least maybe one last message from home. I didn't consider the idea that there would be no fanfare whatsoever. I couldn't even think for one second that such an event in human history would only be shared between me and my own psyche.

The last six and a half years have been filled with little more than my own thoughts, and barely a scrap of memory remains for me to jot them down upon. After what I just witnessed I suppose that it's just as well. Very little can or will compare to this finale; and even if it could I simply wouldn't live long enough to see it anyway.

If I hadn't considered such an adventure then I imagine I would be sitting in a prison cell writing a completely different peroration. I imagine I would have had weight sets and exercise; conversation and interaction of some sort. I may or may not have found the meaning of God, or at least the meaning that I decided upon while here. I may have found inner peace like the peace I have now, or I might have gone completely insane. I'll never know.

I was angry all those years ago when I was asked to volunteer for this journey. I was still hurt by the events that led to my incarceration. I maintain my innocence to this very hour and second. The only regret I have is lack of evidence to support my claim. But that was over seven years ago now. There is absolutely nothing I or anyone else can do or say that will change where I sit or the window that I am staring out of. My guilt or innocence matters not here.

As I ponder the length of my existence from this moment on I cannot help but feel guilty about the loss of life that happened that night, regardless of my innocence. I feel that I could have helped that poor woman. I could have saved her from the clutches of death. Or perhaps I could only help her as much as I can help myself right now.

When I was approached for this journey I was barely able to comprehend that such a thing was even possible. It was true that it had been tested for over forty years, but I would be the last test before decisions could be made. In that sense I felt important, like I was contributing to society in a way that no one else could even dream about. I still feel that way, though I have struggled to deal with my decision to take this trek many times since I left.

There is a certain pride that comes with knowing that you are so alone. No one else is around to tear you to pieces or make you feel small. At the same time your own prejudices put you at risk for mental self mutilation. There lies the genesis of my almost seven year long struggle. On one hand I am like my own god, but at the same time the bible I requested for my journey is full of passages that let me know that there can be no other gods. Am I my own? Do I not belong to me? Or does God own my existence, even here?

At first there was the excitement of the unknown. How long would I live? How far could I travel? What, if anything, would I discover? But then the reality of my loneliness and the sound of my own voice began to crawl through my veins and course through my body. I became myself. I became this lonely and self-pitying monster though I crave the indulgence of every other human being. No one else could possibly understand how that feels, because there has never been another person to do what I have done.

In the beginning of my journey I scratched notches to signify my days; just as I would had I stayed in prison. It was comforting to me to do something so familiar that so many people in the history of mankind had done. But soon it was apparent that the confines of my travels would never have enough room to allow me to continue. With as relatively little memory that I was given it barely made sense for me to count anyway. But alas, I have counted. It has been six years, seven months, and three days since I left on my journey.

It's awkward to read my writings from the beginning. I was full of wonder and suspense. There were so many possibilities and I could barely stand to lose a single thought to my own brain. Why should I keep them to myself? I used to write long diatribes about how God had this master plan and that He sent me to do His work; and I would continue to write so others would know of the empowerment of Christ. Later on the diatribes became essays, essays became letters, and eventually letters became memos.

Sometimes I read through the "dark times," as I call them. It took only a year to reach them, and when I did, I figuratively crawled inside my own head to deal with the isolation. I wrote very little during that time because I was afraid of the words my fingers would create. I thought that the words would be filled with poison and discontent. They would burn foundations and pierce the heads of those whose faith has led them through what they considered to be the darkest pits of hell.

But I have seen the darkest pits of hell with my own two eyes, and I can tell you that I was the only thing to pierce it. Not even the sun and its rays reach that abyss! There is no Eye of God that sees you when you are there. It is cold and disorienting; something I would not wish on any person. Those times finally left me after another year or so, and when they did I had a new-found trust in the companionship of God. I can look back and see that it was as if a completely different person wrote those entries. I was a juvenile; an infant in the universe.

I suppose that if I lived another six or seven years from now that I would read this and feel the same about it as I do those dark times. I would consider myself a child reading this. That is fine, because I won't have to worry about that being even a remote possibility. I imagine that another week is a safe and calculated estimate; perhaps two or three if I am, as others might say, lucky.

I thought that I would be able to remember exact dates for each major event, but I was mistaken. There comes a point that time becomes unessential and bothersome. It puts wrinkles on your skin and grays your hair - that's what time does. So when I came out of the dark times and readied myself for the continuation of my journey I made the conscious decision to never place importance on those major events. Each one only signified further isolation.

I feel that I should rhetorically ask if these are the last words that you wanted to hear from me. In your heart of hearts would you be able to find it in yourself to answer your own question of how small you are in the grand scheme of things? Does the effect of a god or no god at all make any real difference? If you were forced to live inside of your own mind would you make it as long as I have? Could your body, mind, and spirit handle the tribulations that mine has?

When it is your turn to look back at whatever your journey has been then you will have the opportunity to answer those questions as you see fit. Your path is one that you choose, just as I have chosen to travel the distance that I have. This isolation and my mental struggle have made me realize through bouts of sanity and insanity that I have found God in the sense that He has found me. How else could I explain that I managed to live as long as I have? The doctors and scientist all believed that I would only be able to withstand the depth of my journey for perhaps a year, let alone long enough to witness what just happened outside my window!

But since I am choosing the last words that anyone will ever know were mine then I will close with a simple explanation of how it feels to see what I have seen.

The first time I laid my eyes on the moon I was struck by its enormity. I felt its presence unlike most of humanity has. It gave me hope that I would live for a long time, but it was a stark reminder of the distance I needed to go. I cried when I gazed upon it. It was majestic and humble.

I was surprised at how short of a time passed between that and laying my eyes on Mars for the first time. We have all seen pictures of Mars and have pondered many things about it, but those thoughts and photos do nothing to describe the chilling nature of its aura. Jupiter held excitement because of its sheer size and again I wept, that time because of the magnitude of what I was seeing. Saturn and its rings gave me chills and Uranus was more beautiful that all of them but Earth. Passing by Neptune was bittersweet, as my journey had only one last destination after that.

And now as I watch Pluto slowly shrink and marvel at the faint dot that is our sun I know that my journey and objective are complete. Every entry for the last six plus years will be scrutinized by scientist, psychologist, philosophers, religious scholars, and laymen for centuries to come. I sometimes laugh at the possibility of many scholars and politicians debating my words. Some will claim my sanity at the end of my journey is a reward for taking on such a task. Others will claim that these final words are that of a mad man, who sees clearly that God and His infinite wisdom would not sanction such a fate for a man.

But alas, He has.

It is now up to you to decide if solitary and planetary travel is adequate for further scientific use. You all must make the decision if the trials I have weathered and their psychological impact are meaningful enough for further development of the program. I can only tell you of the peace I have now, knowing that I volunteered to feel the way that I do as I watch hopelessly while our solar system continues to disappear. I am grateful that God allowed me to live long enough to say that I am the only man to see our solar system with his own eyes and not through a telescope. But I am also the loneliest man in the universe...

…and that to comfort the world.

So good-night, and may the touch of another human warm your heart, as I long for it to warm mine.

W.S. Anderson

October 22, 2064


End file.
